


The Mutant Hunter

by Nell65



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Avatar of Arcadia Universe, F/M, Ice Mechanic, Space Opera
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 13:22:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7106584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nell65/pseuds/Nell65
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A reader named LieutentantSmoak left a comment on <i>Avatar of Arcadia</i> (thank you, LieutenantSmoak!!), and wished I’d written the flashback of when Roan and Raven met. Turns out I had <i><b>Plenty</b></i> of headcanon for that. Started to describe it in the reply box. Ended up writing it. It turned into porn. Because it just did, okay?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <i>They didn’t meet cute. Or ugly. Or sweet or hard or sad or funny. They just... met. And liked what they found.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mutant Hunter

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Avatar of Arcadia](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6469555) by [Nell65](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nell65/pseuds/Nell65). 



> For my excellent beta and fandom friend, Jeanie205. I would never do it without you.

It was one of those narrow dark bars. Place for serious drinkers. People who wanted to sit at little tables, quiet and alone after work, and toss back a few before heading home, cushioned against whatever awaited them there. Or sit, heads bent close, with a few friends. Or business partners. Or enemies. Talk in low voices while music popular in the last generation played just loudly enough to keep everything that was said feeling reasonably private.

He was sitting alone. About halfway down the long wall opposite the bar. He looked up when she came in, light eyes glowing in the gloomy bar. Their eyes met, so briefly, and his pretty sculpted lips turned up in the smallest of knowing smirks. He tipped his glass to her, but didn’t take a drink.

She kept her face still and her eyes, after the briefest of hesitations, moving. Scanning for a stool at the bar. There were lots to choose among. The first after work rush was over, and it was too soon for the after-dinner drinkers to be out. She took a stool a little towards the back. It was a spot where she could watch him, and keep an eye on the path to the door. For when she inevitably decided she needed to slide on out because he wasn’t worth her evening.

This wasn’t a bar she visited often. Hardly ever. She liked louder noisier younger crowds. Crowds closer to her own age. A dance floor. A pool table or two. Pinball machines. Music released sometime in the decades since her own birth. 

On the upside, though, her friends didn’t come here much either. Especially not those among her friends who might have taken one good look at Mr. Dangerous sitting a few meters and an empty table or three to her left, and dragged her ass the hell out. 

They would’ve reminded her that she liked her boys soft and young, a little blurry around the edges, the type who laughed and smiled and teased and made her jewelry based on her name. Not hard men, who didn’t say much and just watched, heated offers gleaming in their light eyes. 

She’d’ve told her friends, if they’d been there, that maybe it was time for a change.

She was just coming from work, herself. Had stayed late putting all her tools away. Her station had gotten a bit cluttered. She hadn’t stooped so low as to change her clothes. Mr. Dangerous had made it perfectly clear he liked what he saw just fine.

He’d looked her up and down, once, fast and confident, when Sinclair called her over to let her know the client was there to inspect and pay for their work. Her work. She’d sighed to herself as she’d crossed the floor and wondered how long it would take him to lay some tired line on her.

But instead he’d listened carefully and asked intelligent questions about her repairs on his ship, watching her hands and inspecting the wiring himself while she showed him what she’d done. He prioritized. She appreciated that in a person.

It was a sweet little ship. She liked that, too. A true Prowler. Didn’t see many of those out this way, out here on the Coriolis Arm, halfway to the edge. True Prowlers were expensive and generally sold directly to military fleets. He must have found his, an older model, at one of the rare salvage/surplus sales. 

It needed minor repairs: a short in the electrical system, interior fans on the fritz, a couple of loose exterior panels, engine running rough from being pushed hard in atmosphere. Nothing a little cleaning and tightening couldn’t fix. He kept it in good rig, too. Clean. Orderly. A pair of new properly-installed cyrotanks, both humming quietly, filling one small berth, chemicals neatly stored in secured open shelves nearby. 

When she’d finished talking, including a pointed reminder that atmosphere required greater awareness of engine limits, and he had no more questions, she’d complimented him on his ship and then pointed him to the ticket window for him to settle his bill. He’d dropped his eyes fast then, and scanned her up and down, slow and thorough. 

Made her feel conscious of her bare skin, nearly all of which was hidden under her comfortably loose work clothes.

She’d been smirking at him, by the time he’d worked his gaze back up to her face. She was _fine_ and she knew it. Even in a heavy coverall. 

He was fine, too, and he knew that. Lean build, slim hips, really wide shoulders, tall but not too tall, strong forearms visible beneath his rolled sleeves, big square hands. His face was just too boldly drawn for beauty, a broad forehead and a big, strong nose under dark, heavy brows, one of them split by an old scar. High prominent cheekbones tapering abruptly down to a narrow, if very determined-looking jaw, and a wide pretty mouth with sharply defined lips. For all of that, it was his eyes that made you look twice, and then a third time. Pale blue, framed with thick dark lashes, bright against his lightly tanned skin. 

He’d smirked right back at her, thanked her again, and told her where he’d be drinking. She’d’ve been more offended at his presumption, but he’d caught her staring at him, more than once, as she showed him her work. Interest was mutual and they both knew it.

His was watching her now, light eyes tracking her movements as she ordered her drink, vodka neat, and chatted up the bartender. He watched her when she tossed her drink back fast, let it burn quiet and warm from her throat to her belly, all without shaking. Just the way her late and unlamented addict of a mother taught her when she was much too young to learn. He watched her when she made her way to the privy, pausing to sass back when someone she vaguely knew called her name, told her she was looking good tonight. 

She knew she did. But the compliment made her strut, just a little more, all the same. She’d left her heavy coverall at work, of course, back in her locker. So she was just wearing her regular work shirt and trousers, both snug enough not to bunch under her coverall, loose and flexible enough to be comfortable all day as she crawled around and under and over ships and through conduits. Her ass, full and firm, looked good though, she was sure of that. So did the rest of her, buttons at the top of her knit shirt open just enough to reveal her smooth skin and hint at the healthy cleavage below. And she’d let her hair out of the scarf she wore at work, her long thick ponytail swishing as she passed into the narrow hallway at the back of the bar.

She lingered an extra minute or two, fluffing her hair, checking her mascara.

Then she pulled open the door to discover Mr. Dangerous was standing right outside it, leaning against the opposite wall. Thumbs hooked in his front pockets, one foot crossed over the other, entirely at his ease as he looked her over again.

She stood, still and startled, caught directly by his gaze. 

His lips curved into a smile, his eyes steady now on her face. “Invite me in?”

There was hint of a challenge in his voice, in the tilt of his chin, like he wasn’t sure if she’d quite have the guts to follow through.

For the space of a heartbeat she thought about saying _no_ , slipping out, heading for home. Maybe he was too much for her to handle. He was a mutant hunter. His cryotanks held a pair of giant horned mutant boar, big enough to rip the shit out of the station if they’d ever been let loose. He'd tracked them down, caught them, frozen them, and now was going to sell them to a game preserve in Trikru System. A place where rich people who liked to hunt penned animals could play at being half as tough as the hunters who stalked and trapped them free and wild on the edge. Less than half as tough as the man watching her now. No softness anywhere on him.

Not much softness left on her either.

She stepped back, held open the door. 

He pushed in, gently, slowly, as though, she realized, she was some wild thing that might startle and flee if he moved too fast. 

The privy was tiny, barely big enough for a battered metal sink and a nearly miniaturized head. The door swung open into the small space between them, banging against the lip of the sink if you pushed it in too hard or too fast. The walls were painted a deep grey, nearly black, a vain attempt to cut down on graffiti, which was etched into the paint instead, or scrawled in red nail polish, or just decorated all over the notices stuck on the wall opposite the door. Notices announcing band dates from months ago, rubbish sales, support groups, and missing people. The single light, mounted over the metal mirror, pointed down, which left the upper corners in deep shadow.

Once he cleared the door, he turned, still moving slow, coming around to face her. She mirrored him, making room for two bodies in the tiny space by slipping past him as she pushed the door closed, ending up with her back to it. 

He moved closer, she stepped back another half step, until her ass and her shoulders were pressed up against the door itself. He stopped a handsbreadth away from her, still giving her the tiniest space to change her mind. Then, with his eyes on hers, he reached past her hip to the door handle and the deadbolt, locking it, slipping it into ‘occupied.’ 

Then he raised his hands and pressed them flat on the doorframe, one on either side of her head, caging her in. Also showing off the size of his biceps, pulling at the fabric of his jumpsuit. He leaned in, still not quite touching her, drifting closer as he tilted his head. 

She could smell the liquor on his breath, same as he could smell the vodka on hers, she knew. He also smelled faintly spicy, dim memory of whatever grooming products he used, and like warm flesh.

His lips were hovering just centimeters from hers when he caught her eyes with his own and said, “Ask, if you want it.”

“Kiss me,” she said. Not asking. Telling.

She saw laughter flash in his eyes, but then his mouth was on hers and her eyelids fluttered closed. Soft kisses. Light kisses. Patient, teasing kisses. Learning the shapes of them. Tilting his head this way and that, finding the best angles, the ones where they fit together easily.

After the first few brushes of his mouth on hers she was ready for more, her own lips parting as she dragged at his, leaning forward to follow his mouth as he pulled away. Finally she reached up and seized handfuls of his jumpsuit and pulled him closer, opening her mouth in time for him to suck at her lower lip, pulling a quiet moan up from her gut.

Their kisses got longer, and wetter, and she caught his lip again only this time with her teeth, sliding her hands up and around the back of his neck and holding him still. She arched and pressed her chest up and into his, rising up onto her toes without even planning on it, just wanting, needing, to feel more of him pressed up against her.

He met her and matched her kisses with his own, dragging her mouth still further open, his hands sinking down past her shoulders and then around her waist, and his tongue touching hers at the same time his hand slid down to grip her ass.

She smiled into his mouth, and murmured, “Good thing you kiss well, or I’d have to break your hand.”

“You’d regret that,” he said. “I’m very good with my hands.”

Then he bent his head and kissed her again. Hotter, wetter, longer. He adjusted his grip on her ass, one long finger pressed against the center seam, obscene and intimate despite the clothes, or maybe because of their clothes. Then he shifted his weight, and half lifted her, and she was suddenly riding hard against his thigh. His hand behind pushing her forward, already setting up a rhythm he met with his own hips, rocking her up and back, up and back. 

Her nerves were on fire and her clit was swelling and moisture was leaking out of her folds and if he hadn’t had his mouth on hers, muffling her sounds, anyone in the hallway would have heard her.

She was clinging to him now, one arm wrapped around his shoulders, her other hand buried in his shaggy dark hair, holding his pretty mouth where she could kiss him best. Her hips moving all by themselves, sliding side to side, trying to drag her cunt open to get her clit closer to the hard ridge of his quadriceps thrust so tight between her thighs.

She hardly felt his hand leave her ass, but then she did feel his fingers ride up under her shirt, pulling it free from where it was half tucked into the waistband of her trousers, his fingertips ghosting along her skin. And then he popped the fastenings on the front and his fingers slipped down, under her panties, and she would have cried out if he’d let her mouth free.

He slid his fingers down lower, finding the wetness, dipping his fingertips in over and over again, just enough to make a smooth slick path up to her clit and then he settled in, working her right up to the edge while she clung to him, whispering hard into his ear, telling him _harder, slower, yes, like that, exactly like that, faster now, now, speed up, yes, like that yes._

And then she crashed right on over, a hard shiver rocking through her whole body.

He flicked her clit, lightly, once, twice, drawing out a few last aftershocks, then slowly pulled his hand free from her pants.

She let go her fierce hold on his shoulders, sliding her hands down to his arms, taking a second or three to note the strength and size there, sagging back into the door, still half straddling his thigh. She opened her eyes and saw he was staring down at her, his own expression soft and satisfied. 

“What was that for?” she asked him.

“I wanted to see you come,” he said.

For some reason this made her laugh. “Like what you saw?”

Heat flared again in his eyes as he looked at her. He nodded, and answered her seriously. “Yes. I like what I see.”

“Think you could do it again? In a place more comfortable than this?” she asked, already knowing she wanted to strip him down and ride him until he begged for mercy. And he didn’t seem much like a begging type. So it could be a long, long night. She shivered again. Just a little.

“Yes.” He was grinning at her now. “I can definitely do that again.”

“You have to buy me dinner first, and another drink. And not here. This place is for old people who drink too much.”

He had a really nice laugh. She wondered how soon she could make him laugh again.


End file.
